


Warm

by thegingerintheback (CdnGingerGirl)



Series: Domestfics [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Domestic, Kissing, M/M, Party, rated M for suggestions of sexual activity, soft porn sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 10:09:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CdnGingerGirl/pseuds/thegingerintheback
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John host a Christmas party at 221B</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warm

**Author's Note:**

> so I know it's not Christmas, but I saw some artwork on Tumblr of Sherlock giving John a kiss on the forehead, and my imagination just took off from there.

Sherlock Holmes does not “party”.

He has been known to make appearances at events that may be characterized as “parties”. Mycroft occasionally makes him come to functions for various dignitaries; these are generally characterized by women in evening gowns and opera gloves, and men in black tie, with glasses of champagne and bone spoons of caviar, but they are not, strictly speaking, “parties”. He has also attended several of his mother’s holiday soirées, which are generally the same as Mycroft’s to-dos, just on a smaller scale. Although he attends them rather under duress, he would, if asked nicely, admit he doesn’t mind them, since they are generally held at Mummy’s estate, and at least he can escape to his old rooms when the company becomes tiresome.

Last year, he attended a Christmas ‘do at the Yard. John had dragged him out, arguing that it wouldn’t kill him to be sociable once a year, and that, if he behaved himself, John would let him spout his snarky thoughts about the various Yard members in the cab on the way home, to his heart’s content; he just had to hold it in for three hours. Sherlock struggled mightily; he not only reached John’s arbitrary time limit, but beat it by twelve whole minutes, and as soon as John saw the gleam in his eye that meant that Sherlock was one inane question from letting loose, he dragged him into a cab, where the words tumbled from Sherlock’s lips, and then dragged him into the sitting room at Baker Street, where he got on his knees by the fire and sucked Sherlock off while the detective continued to spout deductions between moans and sharp breaths.

Sherlock detests parties. He finds the company boring and the noise overwhelming. Since he and John got together as more than just friends, he would much rather be at home with his doctor. Really, the only good thing about parties is that John looks so lovely dressed up…but then, the only bad thing about parties is that John looks so lovely dressed up. Because then, they become marathon sessions in which Sherlock tries to control himself and not yank his lover’s clothes off so he can smear him with caviar in front of all of Mycroft’s colleagues. At least now when he flees Mummy’s parties, it is for a very good reason.

No, strictly speaking, Sherlock does not attend parties.

This year, though, is different. John’s only wish this Christmas is for “a proper Christmas shindig, Sherlock! With beer and mulled wine and a tree and presents and crackers! You know, the whole thing! A proper English Christmas party Sherlock, here in our flat. It will be fantastic!”

Sherlock has never been able to find it in his heart to deny John anything. Since John’s dad died last fall, he would sooner pluck out every hair on his own head than say no.

~~

Since that day in September, Sherlock has been in agony, because his John has been hurting. John was very close to his parents. His mum died while he was a med student, and Harry… Sherlock snorts in derision. So John cleaved to his dad, a gentle man, a retired country doctor, like _his_ dad. It broke John’s heart when his dad called to say that his cancer, the lung cancer that he had kept hidden for the last eighteen months, had progressed to the point of no return. John had dropped everything to rush out to the Midlands to be with his dad and, when he died, Sherlock had dropped his work into Lestrade’s lap and joined him. Since then, John has been melancholy, and so when the idea of a Christmas party came to him, and brought something like his old spark back into his eyes, Sherlock said yes without giving it a single thought.

If he had _actually_ given it a single thought, he might not have answered so quickly. John insisted on a frenzy of cleaning before the 23rd.

“Sherlock, is this… Mould? Really? Why is it on the kitchen table?”

“Sherlock, you need to label these jars better. If I pour out eyeballs instead of olives, that’ll be the end of the party.”

“Sherlock, why is there a titrating apparatus in the loo?”

“Sherlock, I’m sorry, but I think your experiment on dust collection has reached its natural end result. Get the hoover out.”

And then there was the decorating.

“Just put the angel on the tree, not the bust of Mendeleyev. You can hang him on a lower branch.”

“No, alternate the ribbons! Red and green and… Sherlock! Puce is not a Christmas colour.”

“I love this CD! It’s not Christmas without Good King Wenceslas!”

“Look, just hang up the wreath, you lanky giraffe!”

(John would pay mightily for the “lanky giraffe” remark, Sherlock vowed privately. All in good time.)

But at last, the day that John was looking forward to, the day that brought some life back to his eyes and eased a little of Sherlock’s aching heart, arrived.

~~

At seven p.m., Sherlock dresses carefully.

Perhaps _carefully_ is the wrong word. John had put the word around to their friends at the Yard, and specified it was casual, and that, in fact, Christmas jumpers would be more than welcome.

Sherlock does not own a Christmas jumper. All he owns are bespoke suits, fitted shirts and leather shoes. He could wear one of his disguises, but he doesn’t think a vicar or a chef would be too welcome at this party. He turns when he hears a tap on the door.

“I got you something,” John says, almost shyly. He’s wearing his Christmas jumper (it’s got a small repeating reindeer pattern in blue and white) and is holding a white paper carrier bag. “Early Christmas present, if you like.”

Sherlock tilts his head to the side. John puts the carrier bag on the bed and pulls Sherlock into his arms. He presses his cheek to Sherlock’s bare chest and listens to his heartbeat.

“Thank you for doing this. It means… I mean, my dad…” Sherlock presses his lips into John’s hair, still damp from the shower, and waits.

John clings to him for another moment, then kisses Sherlock’s neck. “My dad had a party every year. It was lovely, all his doctor friends, and Harry and I would invite our friends too. It seemed like it snowed every year, just for us, and it was like… a postcard. And Old Mr. Cleary from up the lane would have too much scotch and fall asleep in the chair by the fire, and my dad would drive him home in the morning, and mum would bake a ham, and mull wine, and…” He trails off, his fingers tracing idle patterns on Sherlock’s white skin. “And this is the first Christmas without my dad. Even in Afghanistan, they set up a Skype hookup for us, and I got to call into the party that year. It was almost like being there.” He closes his eyes tightly. Sherlock kisses him again.

There is a knock at the door.

“That’ll be Lestrade, most likely. I’ll leave you to finish getting dressed.” John pulls away with a face of regret. “Look in the bag. Happy Christmas.” He shuts the bedroom door behind him.

Sherlock sighs; his chest feels cold and his arms feel vacant. He turns to the bed, opens the carrier bag, and unwraps the tissue.

It’s lovely. It’s a deep, friendly red, darker than a candy apple, not as dark as blood. The cashmere is light and soft as air. There’s a note tucked in the collar.

_With the grey trousers, I think. The ones that go with the jacket you burnt with acid._

_xx J_

~~

John and Lestrade are drinking beer and talking about the best Christmas films of all time.

“I dunno, John. I love _Die Hard_ , but for my money there’s nothing like _Love Actually_.” John snorts into his lager.

“You old softy, I never pegged you for the romantic type!”

“Of course he’s the romantic type, John. Look at the way he’s holding his glass.” They turn to the door of the sitting room at the sound of the baritone, and John’s jaw drops.

Sherlock looks… He looks… John is suddenly, painfully aware that his jeans are a bit on the snug side. More than a bit, actually.

Sherlock looks delicious. The red V-neck fits him like a glove, emphasizing his taut shoulders and trim waist. The colour pops against his white skin, and makes his eyes gleam a bright green. His dark hair, damp and curling from the shower, is brushing the back of his neck. He has forgone a collared shirt and John is dimly aware that he is staring at the hollow between his collarbones and licking his lips. With the dark grey trousers, he looks like he should be on the cover of an upscale men’s magazine.

Thankfully for John, Lestrade breaks the ice. “Sherlock, happy Christmas!” He offers his hand. With a glance at John with his unfathomable eyes, pupils black against the green, Sherlock shakes firmly.

“Happy Christmas to you, Lestrade.” He pours himself a brandy from the table by the fireplace and glances out the window. It’s snowing, big fluffy flakes like cotton wool. He smiles briefly, but inside, his heart is becoming lighter with each snowflake.

~~

By eleven, the party is in full swing. Mrs. Hudson is chatting with Lestrade and Molly; a few of the other Yarders and doctors from the surgery are pulling crackers, wearing paper hats and laughing hysterically in the kitchen; and Sherlock is sitting by the fire, quietly plucking at his violin.

“The Coventry Carol. One of my favourites.”

Sherlock stares into the fire, brandy in one hand, as he continues to pluck. He feels John’s hand pull gently on his curls.

“My mum’s favourite, actually. My dad wasn’t big into any music, but my mum… she loved to sing. And this was her favourite, even though it’s so sad.” John perches on the arm of the chair, and his hand slips from Sherlock’s curls. He feels the warm fingers on the back of his neck, under his collar. Sherlock feels warmth spread through his chest, a warmth that has little to do with the brandy or the fire.

John’s hand pulls on his curls once more, and then Sherlock closes his eyes as he feels soft lips on his temple. He opens them when John stands up and takes his glass. “Refill?”

Sherlock smiles briefly, seeing himself reflected in John’s eyes. The pupils are wide and black, all but obscuring the blue irises. It’s not all from the dim light in the flat. “Please.”

~~

By one, the party is all but over.

Most of the guests have gone. Donovan left at nine to meet her new boyfriend at his staff party, Mrs. Hudson left at quarter to midnight, and people have been trickling out in twos and threes since. John saw Molly leave with a younger constable, and Lestrade is shrugging into his coat with a yawn.

“Great party, boys. John, this is an annual thing, yeah?” He chuckles as Sherlock turns a flinty eye on him. “We’ll see, I guess. Good night, happy Christmas.”

Sherlock hears the door close, and then John’s tired footsteps. He hears clinks as John gathers up glasses and empty bottles. As he closes his eyes, he can visualize John moving around the flat, putting things in the bin, in the recycling, in the sink. He can see him wrapping up the rest of the ham and putting it in the fridge, and binning the bits of crisps from the bottoms of bowls. He sits by the dying fire, his eyes closed, feeling warm in his red V-neck. He feels worn-out; while he was fine with having this party in his flat, and he was ridiculously happy to see John smiling and having a good time, he is exhausted from having to be nice all night, nice and pleasant and polite, without being able to take John to their room and snog him senseless. As he sits quietly, empty snifter on the floor by his chair and violin clasped loosely in his hand, he listens to John and feels some of the tension start to unwind from his gut.

He is close to dozing when he hears John call him from the kitchen.

“Sherlock? Can you come in here? I need your help with something, this goes up high and I can’t—quite...”

Sherlock pads silently into the kitchen, and there is John, leaning against the counter, a smile on his lips, and a sprig of mistletoe between his fingers. He rolls it between his thumb and index finger as Sherlock stops in the doorway. His heart begins to thrum like a bird’s as John pushes off and walks towards him.

“My dad was one hundred percent faithful to my mum, but he was a friendly guy. And at every Christmas party, he would put the mistletoe over the front door and snag a little kiss from all the ladies. Always respectful, though, my dad. A real gentleman.” He’s closing in on Sherlock, who is leaning against the doorframe. His legs have suddenly decided to give out as he watches John, pupils dark, almost prowling towards him with a sprig of berries in his hand and lust in his eyes. “Tradition says, once mistletoe is cut, it’s not supposed to touch the ground. You’re supposed to hang it up. And since you’re such a tall…” He takes a step. “Lanky…” another step. “Giraffe…” and Sherlock suppresses a groan. “…D’you think you could hang it up?”

Staring into the doctor’s eyes, Sherlock again sees his reflection in them. He plucks the plant from John’s fingers and holds it aloft. “I must have deleted the cultural aspects of mistletoe, John. What happens now?” His voice is low and it sends shivers down John’s spine.

“Well, tradition says that men can kiss girls under it, until all the berries are gone. But there aren’t any girls here, so…” And he cups a hand on the side of Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock melts into the kiss. It’s been so long since they had a proper snog, since September; John’s been melancholy and Sherlock hasn’t wanted to push, but this, _this…_ He’s missed this so much. He leans into the kiss and brushes his tongue against John’s.

John sighs, a small sigh through his nose, and leans into Sherlock. He feels Sherlock’s left arm wrap around his waist, as the other one keeps the mistletoe in the air above their heads. The kiss is tentative at first, but his body has missed this, he has missed Sherlock, and his lips move of their own accord.

They kiss softly at first, then Sherlock slips his tongue into John’s mouth and his brain completely shuts off.

When John pulls back for air, they are sagging against the doorframe. Sherlock has dropped the mistletoe on the high shelf by the door and has both arms wrapped tightly around John.  They press their foreheads together, eyes closed.

“Thank you for the party, Sherlock. It was wonderful.”

“You’re welcome. I… didn’t dislike it.”

“Is that your way of saying you had fun?”

“It’s my way of saying I didn’t dislike it.”

Sherlock feels John’s face crinkle against his own as he smiles. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”

“Happy Christmas, John.”

 

 

Listen to The Coventry Carol (this version by the stunning Loreena McKennitt) [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-g7-exAMKAY)

**Author's Note:**

> All research on mistletoe done on Wikipedia.


End file.
